


Friday Night Fever

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Greaser Jim, Greaserlock, M/M, Nerd Sherlock, PWP, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Of course,” Jim repeated, blowing out a puff of smoke, “everyone looks at you like that.” He leaned forward, getting as much into Sherlock’s space as he could. “Because you’re fucking hot, and everyone who’s anyone would cut off their right arm to fuck you hard on a table.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday Night Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StartingWithTheRidingCrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StartingWithTheRidingCrop/gifts).



> This is my first Sheriarty fic, so please be kind to me.
> 
> I did use Americanisms in this fic, but I felt that it was appropriate given the genre and the fact that the greaser is an American thing.
> 
> I had to tag as underage because Sherlock's younger than Jim and... well, yeah.

The red and white leather seat creaked under Sherlock’s light, shifty weight. He blinked, pushed his hair back from his face only to have it fall in front of his eyes again, and stared down at the table and the large stack of books he had set on it. He took a breath, shook himself, and pulled out the first one. Algebra. It was easy – it was all easy – but he still didn’t favor it.

He was maybe two short problems in when Mrs. Hudson brought his usual over – a strawberry shake with two cherries and a small plate of fries. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said offhandedly, because it was second nature by now.

“Honestly, dear, please call me Martha,” the older woman tried to insist, as she did every Friday when Sherlock came in to study, but Sherlock had already turned a deaf ear, entirely too focused on his studies.

Sherlock grabbed a couple fries as she walked away, munching on them slowly as he moved to the next problem, getting lost in the increasingly “challenging” problems.

“You really look like you’re pushing yourself.”

Sherlock jumped, startled, and looked up at the boy suddenly sitting across from him. Sherlock recognized him, of course. The slicked-back black hair, those dark brown eyes, that leather jacket, the smell of motorcycle exhaust, and the bruises on his knuckles made him appear just like every other greaser that went to school with Sherlock, but it was his voice that made him different.

“Jim,” he said shortly, turning back to his chemistry homework, having finished the math a while ago. “What does my lack of effort have to do with you sitting across from me?”

Jim leaned back against the shiny seat, reaching out and taking some fries from the plate, dipping them in the milkshake before eating them. “I saw that Watson kid looking at you today. He looks at you a lot, you know. It’s a bit sad how enthralled he is by you.”

Sherlock made a noise, not wanting to give Jim the thought that he was hanging on his every word. He was glad, though, that Jim was keeping a check on the stupid lingo that the greasers insisted on using. Sherlock thought it was dumb, and that it made them sound as intelligent as a shoe.

“Of course,” Jim was still going, grabbing a couple more fries and reaching for his lighter and an unfiltered cigarette. Marlboro black special blend. Sherlock preferred the red shorts, but a cigarette was a cigarette, really. “Of course,” he repeated, blowing out a puff of smoke, “everyone looks at you like that.” He leaned forward, getting as much into Sherlock’s space as he could. “Because you’re fucking hot, and everyone who’s anyone would cut off their right arm to fuck you hard on a table.”

Sherlock blushed scarlet, a creping motion that rose pink and then red up his neck to slowly spread over his cheeks. He bit his lip, his pencil stilling for a moment where he was scribbling down the answer to something obvious. He cleared his throat, reaching out and taking his milkshake in hand, forcing himself to nonchalantly take a sip and set it back down.

Jim took another drag of his cigarette, and Sherlock had to try hard not to stare at the way his lips wrapped around the end of it, forming an ‘o’ as he released the smoke slowly.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head as he went back to his homework. “Is there a reason that you’re here, or are you just trying to distract me?” he asked, glancing up at Jim and then back down.

“I got the bike back,” Jim replied, tapping his fingers on the table and grinning at Sherlock. “She’s fucking gorgeous now. I brought her so that you could see. In the alley,” he said, dragging on his cig again before he stood and left, his boots falling heavily on the red and white tiled floor.

The bell on the door tinkled, and the air pressure changed as it fell shut once more.

There was far too much silence in Jim’s absence. Jim gave rooms life, energy, something vaguely dangerous. Sherlock missed it every time Jim left, and he couldn’t help impatiently bouncing his foot as he waited, waited to finish another few problems.

It took him nearly five minutes, but eventually he slammed his books shut, packed them away into his backpack, and put money on the table for his food and a tip.

“See you next week, Mrs. H,” he called, shouldering his pack and walking from the diner. He took a breath of the smog-filled evening air of the city as he breached the outside, closing his eyes for a moment to steal himself. Brazened at the thought of possibly riding the motorcycle with Jim tonight, he took off to the left, jogging a bit until he reached the nearest alley.

Jim was leaning against the dirty brick wall, smoking another cigarette. He blew out his latest puff, grinning cattily at Sherlock and dropping the remainder of the cig on the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of those scuffed black boots.

Sherlock shivered, his fight or flight instinct rearing up inside of him, screaming _danger, danger_. But Sherlock knew. He knew everything that Jim was, every dangerous part of him, and he honestly didn’t give even less than a fuck.

“Like her?”

Jim’s words forced Sherlock to redirect his focus, swiveling his head to take in the bike and her new, glorious, paint job. “She looks sweet,” he said, running his fingers lightly over the shiny black paint, the mix of dark and bright red trim and stenciling that read ‘ _London bound_.’

Sherlock looked up at Jim, his eyes wider, his heart thrumming. “You’re serious?”

Jim’s grin widened again, pacing forward into Sherlock’s space, crowding him up against the wall until Sherlock was as small as he could be against it. “I promised you, didn’t I?” he asked, leaning in to nip at Sherlock’s wonderfully pale neck. “Promised that I would take you over there, show you everything.”

Jim made it sound dirty, like it was a filthy secret that only they could ever know.

Sherlock could only nod, his hands coming up, finding their places on Jim’s hips. He pulled him closer, looking down at Jim through his thick eyelashes. “You promised,” he agreed, the words turning into a hiss as Jim pressed up against him, rocking their hips slowly.

“Jim,” Sherlock protested weakly, trying to push Jim away. “We can’t. Not here. People might see.” He didn’t care if they saw him with Jim, but… people seeing them _together_ might cause issues. Serious issues. Like, beating on the street and probably calling the cops.

“Fuck people,” Jim growled, lifting Sherlock up by his hips and wrapping his long legs around him. “I can have you wherever I want, and no one can say a damned thing.”

Sherlock gasped, hating himself a little more as he rocked into Jim’s deft fingers that were efficiently undoing Sherlock’s jeans, pulling them and his underwear down just enough to expose his ass. “Jim,” Sherlock moaned, tossing his head back like the cock slut he was.

“You’re mine,” Jim said, marking Sherlock’s neck with his lips and teeth, claiming him as he pulled his cock out, leaving Sherlock’s trapped in his jeans. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby,” he whispered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some Vaseline.

Sherlock jumped at the first touch of Jim’s fingers against him, spreading the slick over his hole, pressing inside every so often to fool his muscles into relaxing. “Oh, shit,” he swore, rocking into Jim as one finger slowly slid inside, all the way, pressing, searching. He tensed, swearing, as that sweet sensation went through him when Jim rubbed lightly at his prostate.

“Hush, baby. It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ve got you,” Jim murmured, working his finger in and out of Sherlock, gently adding a second finger. “You have to stay quiet, or people will definitely find us.”

Sherlock whimpered, his core trembling as his muscles worked around Jim’s fingers, trying, it seemed, to draw him in further. He pinched his eyes closed, panting through his nose.

“That’s a good boy. You’re so good for me, Sherlock,” Jim panted, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Jim’s fingers left him, giving him a moment to bask in the praise. And then there was tension again, pressing, pressing, and Sherlock stiffened a bit as the head of Jim’s cock pushed inside of him, parting him and spreading him.

Sherlock cried out, and Jim clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the noise. “You just want us to get caught, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and deadly, matching the rough thrusts that he was pushing into Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, though he couldn’t help his next moan as Jim angled better, fucking him ruthlessly against the bricks, which were scraping his back through his shirt and light jacket.

His legs tightened around Jim’s hips. His breaths fell faster.

He couldn’t get any friction on himself, not when he was so tightly trapped in his jeans and so intensely focused on keeping his hold on Jim.

Jim smirked, watching Sherlock’s face as he fucked him hard, pushed against his prostate to make him squirm and scream against the palm of his hand.

“Fuck, Sherlock. I’m so close,” he panted. He knew that Sherlock had to be just about dying by now, trapped the way he was. “Want me to fill you up, baby?” he asked, kissing and then sucking hard on his neck.

Sherlock nodded furiously, bucking his hips forward and pressing against Jim.

Jim growled, biting down hard on Sherlock’s shoulder as he got in two more thrusts and came. Sherlock moaned against Jim’s hand, rocking gently as Jim’s thrusts slowed and eventually stopped. He pulled out, and Sherlock felt filthy as Jim’s cum leaked out of him, dripping down his ass and thighs before falling to the ground.

Jim pulled away, slowly lowering Sherlock to the ground, supporting him when he swayed. “Oh, you’re still hard,” Jim tutted, shaking his head and smirking up at Sherlock as he lowered himself to his knees. “Would you like some help with that, Sherly?” he asked, reaching up to tug Sherlock free of his jeans.

“Fff- god, Jim,” Sherlock swore, his nails scraping at the wall behind him. “You know I do.”

Jim nodded, leaning forward and getting straight to work. He swallowed Sherlock about halfway down, sucking hard as his hand worked the lower half. He cupped Sherlock’s balls, rolling them around, feeling them tighten up as he got closer, so much closer.

Sherlock tried to stifle the noises falling from him, but each moan and whimper seemed to be pulled from him against his will. “Close,” he gasped, his hips bucking up sharply as he tightened, tensed. Jim sucked harder and rolled his tongue, and Sherlock lost it, crying out Jim’s name as he came in his mouth.

Jim pulled slowly off once Sherlock was spent. He parted his lips and held out his tongue, showing Sherlock all of his cum before he tipped his head back and swallowed noisily. “You taste fucking amazing, baby,” he said, standing up and helping Sherlock back into his underwear and jeans. “My dirty boy.”

Sherlock shivered, buttoning Jim’s jeans for him and then sagging against him. “You know it,” he murmured, smiling softly and closing his eyes, breathing in the smell of Jim. “Could you give me a ride home? It’s late, and I don’t know if my legs would make it, anyway.”

Jim chuckled. “Your brother might see us together,” he whispered, his lips ghosting his ear.

“I don’t care. I’m sure he knows anyway,” Sherlock replied, his arms tightening around Jim. “Please?” he asked again, his voice softer.

Jim pulled away and kissed Sherlock tenderly, lovingly, a side that only Sherlock got to see. “Of course, baby. You know I can’t deny you anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> StartingWithTheRidingCrop, I hope you don't mind that I doubled this fic up to be in the new LWS challenge. I'm a lazy writer, and I only have so many good ideas before my brain needs a break.


End file.
